


Like reflections from your mind

by ladylapislazuli



Category: 30歳まで童貞だと魔法使いになれるらしい | Cherry Magic! Thirty Years of Virginity Can Make You a Wizard?! (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Kurosawa living that sweet life, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:41:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29102715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladylapislazuli/pseuds/ladylapislazuli
Summary: Even now, there are days when Kurosawa can’t believe his luck.
Relationships: Adachi Kiyoshi/Kurosawa Yuichi
Comments: 22
Kudos: 241





	Like reflections from your mind

**Author's Note:**

> I've watched this show twice through in the space of four days and I'm still unhinged. This is fine.

Even now, there are days when Kurosawa can’t believe his luck.

Adachi is in Kurosawa's kitchen. He’s washing dishes, quiet and attentive, cleaning up after eating a meal that Kurosawa cooked for him. His turn, he’d said, shooing Kurosawa out of the kitchen in that funny way of his, with his darting eyes and dimpling smile and hands batting at Kurosawa’s chest as Kurosawa tried to do the cleaning up anyway.

Kurosawa is sitting on the sofa. Nominally reading a manga, but mainly watching Adachi potter about his kitchen. Domestic and familiar, because Adachi knows where everything goes now, doesn’t need to ask where to put the pots or the bowls or Kurosawa’s best kitchen knife.

Adachi is in Kurosawa’s _kitchen_. And Kurosawa has _no idea_ how he got so lucky. 

He sighs, shifting around so he has a better view. Adachi is so gorgeous like this. He’s gorgeous all the time – he is, quite frankly, _so cute_ Kurosawa can hardly stand it – but Kurosawa loves him best like this. Unguarded, at ease, comfortable in his own skin and in Kurosawa’s space. Not just a colleague who walks past Kurosawa in the office, shy and largely silent. No hunched shoulders and averted eyes and suit that doesn’t quite fit him right. He’s comfortable here. His smiles are easy. His presence is warm and gentle as he clatters about Kurosawa’s kitchen like he owns the place, in a t-shirt and loose-fitting pants and comfy red socks. Like he _belongs_ here.

It’s everything Kurosawa ever dreamed of.

Kurosawa imagined all sorts of things during those long, long years when Adachi felt so entirely out of his reach. He imagined dates and anniversaries and dreamy walks on moonlit nights. Imagined catching Adachi in his arms after a dramatic (but not dangerous) fall, and slow-dancing together at a fancy function, and kissing Adachi as fireworks lit the sky overhead. Fantasies right out of a romance novel, and though he indulged in them from time to time, he spent more time imagining… this. Quiet moments with Adachi. Sharing Kurosawa’s life, utterly and completely, even the parts of it that are entirely ordinary. He imagined having Adachi at his side, shouldering burdens together, sharing responsibilities. Smiling, always, because Adachi’s presence lit up even the most mundane of tasks. Living the sweet life Kurosawa dreamed of, happy and in love and _together_.

“What?” Adachi says, noticing his stare. He blinks up at Kurosawa from the sink. He’s wearing rubber kitchen gloves, almost up to his elbows in soapy water, and he’s managed to get some bubbles on his t-shirt.

Kurosawa smiles and shakes his head. His heart feels so full, sometimes. He doesn’t know he’ll ever have the words to explain it – words never feel like enough.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Adachi mutters, ducking his head, though there’s a smile dancing about the corner of his lips.

“Like what?” Kurosawa teases, feigning ignorance.

He knows the answer. _Like a love-struck fool_. Or, maybe, _like the happiest man in the world._

They’ve been together for over a year now. Kurosawa still finds himself staring into the mirror some mornings – mornings where Adachi has slept at his own apartment rather than in Kurosawa’s bed – wondering if it was all just a dream.

It isn’t. There is a second toothbrush in the toothbrush holder. His sheets smell constantly of Adachi, and when Kurosawa misses him he can bury his face in Adachi’s pillow and just breathe him in. There is a drawer full of Adachi’s clothes for the nights he stays over, and when they see each other next, Adachi always lets Kurosawa greet him with a kiss.

Adachi is here, now, in his kitchen. Big eyes flashing up to look at Kurosawa then darting away again, his lips moving as he mutters something unintelligible in reply.

“Hm? What was that?” Kurosawa says, but Adachi just shakes his head and starts wiping the countertop.

 _Kurosawa’s_ countertop, it bears repeating. Adachi, sweet and shy and loathe to impose on anyone, so utterly at home in Kurosawa’s home, cleaning up because it’s part of their routine. Their _shared_ routine.

Kurosawa may well be the luckiest man who ever lived.

Adachi finds Kurosawa's enthusiasm for the life of a domestic couple a little funny. Kurosawa knows he does, because Adachi teases him about it sometimes, in as much as Adachi ever teases anybody.

“Most people don’t dream of doing the laundry together,” he’d laughed when Kurosawa prodded it out of him, covering his face with his hands, and Kurosawa had had no choice but to set down the laundry they were in the middle of hanging up to dry and kissing every bit of skin he could reach.

Maybe he’s right, and most people don’t. But the thing is, Kurosawa wanted _everything_ with Adachi. Not just the exhilarating, breathless, heart-pounding parts, but the quiet moments too. He wanted something grounded. Something _real._

Somehow, unbelievably, he got it.

Kurosawa gets up from the sofa and sidles in Adachi’s direction. As soon as Adachi isn’t looking, he comes up behind him and catches him by the waist. Waits for the all-too-familiar way Adachi startles at the touch, the cut-off noise of surprise, his shoulders leaping to his ears. Common reactions, even now, because Adachi is always slow and a little shy and he takes time to adjust to things, moment by moment, day by day. Even when Kurosawa isn’t intentionally taking him by surprise, Adachi often startles when Kurosawa holds him.

But then, there is this. The moment Kurosawa longs for. The moment when Adachi relaxes into his arms, leaning back into him, exhaling a quiet little laugh. He tips his head towards Kurosawa’s so Kurosawa can see the crinkle of his eyes as he smiles.

Adachi relaxes into his arms like he knows he belongs there, and every time, Kurosawa melts.

“I’ve still got gloves on,” Adachi protests, hovering his hands away from Kurosawa’s skin like he thinks Kurosawa will care if he gets damp and soapy.

He's so cute. So handsome. So warm in Kurosawa's arms, the feel of him as heady as ever. Kurosawa buries his head in the nape of Adachi's neck, unable to help himself and the overwhelming outpouring of love inside his chest. He presses his lips to Adachi's skin, but once he does it once, he can’t seem to stop. He kisses Adachi’s neck, then his shoulder, then his neck again, and Adachi squirms and stutters and laughs.

“I’m just doing the dishes!” he says, audibly baffled. “I’m not doing anything special.”

But he _is_. Kurosawa will never understand how Adachi doesn’t see it. It’s not the dishes – it’s Adachi himself. Here, sharing Kurosawa’s home, not permanent yet ( _yet_ – Kurosawa is working up to that) but comfortable all the same. Adachi is here when Kurosawa is stripped down, is stripped back, is just… himself.

No one has ever been this close to Kurosawa. So intimate, so familiar, so _easy_. No one has ever touched him like Adachi has, pulling something he thought he’d buried right out of his chest, filling him to the brim with feelings he’d never felt before. Teaching him, always, because Adachi saw him – really _saw_ him – before Kurosawa noticed Adachi.

But now Adachi is _here_. As easy as breathing. Slotting into place in Kurosawa’s life like he was always meant to be here, after all the years of yearning that Kurosawa thinks of, in the privacy of his own mind, as a lesson. Penance for the quick judgment Kurosawa made of him when they first started working together. Kurosawa had glanced over him and then away, right up until Adachi leaned over him with his shy, nervous face, putting a hand on Kurosawa's chest and cracking it open without even trying.

There will never be anyone for Kurosawa but Adachi.

“Y-Yuichi?” Adachi says. Kurosawa is squeezing him too tight, head buried in Adachi’s shoulder, breathing in the smell and the heat and the feel of him. He hears the sound of Adachi pulling the rubber gloves from his hands. Feels Adachi settle his hands, now bare, over Kurosawa’s own, squeezing. “Are you all right?”

“Mm,” Kurosawa says. “I’m always all right, when you’re with me. I’m so happy.”

He means it. Every word. It’s been over a year now, a year full of Adachi. Gifted to him, quite literally, by magic.

Adachi makes a funny little noise, broken off. Mutters something else about the dishes, though that too is cut off. He shifts in Kurosawa’s grip, tipping his head away in embarrassment, but Kurosawa waits him out.

Adachi is like a flower that closes up on itself at night. He moves in his own way, in his own time. He isn’t someone to be rushed, or to be pushed, or to speak his thoughts quickly. He struggles to articulate himself sometimes, and even now, when it’s just the two of them, he can’t always speak.

Kurosawa knows to wait. To let Adachi move at his own pace. To wait for him to bloom open again, slow, cautious. So beautiful, when he is ready. So beautiful, when he turns to face the sun.

His fingers skitter across Kurosawa’s hands. Pressed so close, Kurosawa can feel it when Adachi inhales. When he tips his head, giving Kurosawa the briefest flash of his big, soulful eyes.

“I’m so happy, too,” he says. Stilted but painfully honest in that way entirely of his own, without artifice or guile. His eyes flutter away again as quick as they come, and he squirms in Kurosawa's grasp, this time out of embarrassment.

He’s still shy about being held, and about how much Kurosawa adores him. He still gets twitchy and embarrassed when he thinks Kurosawa praises him too much. He still gets flustered when Kurosawa teases him, which Kurosawa kind of hopes will never stop.

But he gets to have this. Adachi in his arms, and in his bed, and in his home. Sitting with him on the sofa, smiling at him over the breakfast table, sleeping safe and warm beside him at night. Adachi teasing him gently, just a little bit, as much as Adachi knows how, and Kurosawa returning the teasing tenfold.

Adachi opening up to him. Piece by piece, petal by petal, like Kurosawa himself is the sun.

He turns Adachi around in his arms, and Adachi comes willingly. Eyes slowly rising to meet Kurosawa's in the way that never fails to take his breath away. Adachi smiles at him, the very same smile that haunted all of Kurosawa's fantasies, so warm and sweet. Then he glances off to the side, those beautiful eyes always so expressive in their movement, flitting and darting with every thought and feeling. Coming back to Kurosawa again as he wraps his arms around Kurosawa and raises his head for a kiss.

Lucky. Kurosawa is so lucky.

He cups Adachi's face in his hand as he kisses him. In his home, in his kitchen, on a quiet night they've shared together. 

As Kurosawa always dreamed.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Like reflections from your mind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29818245) by [rhythmia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhythmia/pseuds/rhythmia)




End file.
